


Pick Up The Pieces

by snakelaces



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon!Dean, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post 9x23, Post-Finale, Reunion, Sweat and tears and sulfur oh my, angst like whoa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 06:52:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1678826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakelaces/pseuds/snakelaces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas hugs him like he's not afraid of breaking him.  Dean's pretty sure he's broken in a million different ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pick Up The Pieces

Dean's hands are trembling when he picks up the phone. He concentrates, tries to still the tremor, but they only shake more violently.  He lets out a curse, throwing the phone clattering back onto the table with a noise that cuts through the silence of the bunker like a gunshot.  

He breaks into a run, not knowing who or what he's running to, just that he needs to do it or, or, or he's gonna die, he's gonna kill (who? Himself?), something awful is gonna happen, he doesn't fucking know, he can feel it in his bones and the burning tension in his tendons just about to snap .  His steps echo loudly on the concrete floor as he dodges the edge of a table, but suddenly he can't breathe and his lungs have betrayed him and he _can't fucking breathe_.   He's doubled over, hands crushing his thighs, gasping like a drowning man, but he forces himself up and forward. He needs to move or he knows, he just _knows_ he'll implode or lie down on the table and never ever get up again, or just start screaming and not stop until he can feel the pain in his throat like millions of tiny shards of glass and pretend that he can hack up the evil inside of him like a bad meal after one too many drinks.  

Everything is shaking, too hot and too cold at once, like he's had fifty gallons of boiling water poured over his head and his body is reacting to the shock by telling him he's skiing naked in the Swiss Alps in the fucking middle of winter.   One hand clutches desperately at his ribs, where his lungs have gone on strike and are refusing to supply enough air to stop blinking spots from clouding at the corner of his vision.  He staggers to the edge of the nearest large object—which happens to be the large, wooden table he started his escape from—and collapses onto it heavily, the edge digging into his thigh and his phone poking sharply at his shoulder blade.  

 

"Fuck."  He wants to say something, anything, because he feels like the world is closing in on him and ants are crawling up his spine and he's positive his vision is permanently tinged with gray and when he inhales all he can smell is sulfur. 

"Fuck."  He can't find the words to say anything.  They're all there, millions of them, tangling and catching together in his stomach and gathering like acid in his throat.   

"Fuck."

 

He heaves a deep breath, then another, lying spread-eagled on the table with his limbs hanging off.  His phone digs insistently into his back, so he groans and pushes himself up, arms screaming.  He plucks it off the table, eyeing it as if it might bite his hand off and take the rest of his arm for good measure. 

The screen is cracked from when he threw it too hard, glass spider-webbing from the corner of the screen, but the display still legibly states SPEED DIAL: CAS.  His finger hovers over the Call button.

Pulls back. 

Hovers.

Pulls back.

So now he's acting like some teenage girl angsting over whether or not to call her crush, _does he **like** like me,_ and it would be funny if he didn't feel so fucking broken.  He almost laughs, but it mixes with a sob in his throat and comes out all choked up.

He cradles the phone in his hand and screws his eyes shut and pictures Cas there, as if by sheer power of wishing he could pull the angel into existence like he once used to be able to.

_Can you hear me, Cas?  Do angels listen to demons?  Is that forbidden?  Cas, please. If you can hear me, please just, just_ _— I need you, Cas.  I mean it. I need you, and I need you now, 'cause I don't know what I'm gonna do and I'm scared.  I'm scared, Cas, I'm fucking terrified, and I need you. Please.  For me?_

There's no answer. 

He waits.

Nothing.

He's frozen into place.

Nothing but a growing pit in his stomach.

He wants to curl in on himself and sob, but his eyes are fixed on a point on the wall in front of him and he doesn't think he could move if someone physically pried him off the table. 

 

_Cas?_

Cold.

_Cas, buddy._

Hot.

Sweat beads on his forehead.

_What do you want me to say, Cas?_

 

And suddenly there's a hand on his shoulder.

He wants to turn, he _does_ , more than anything he's ever wanted before, but he's a toy soldier with his limbs locked into place and sweat dripping into his eyes.   Half sure he's started to hallucinate, he chokes out one more.

"Cas?"

"Dean, I'm here."

And suddenly his limbs have all gone limp and he's collapsing, tipping onto the floor.  He's pretty sure this is the part where he starts shaking uncontrollably and frothing at the mouth and _oh god he's dying, he's dying again_ , but there are strong, warm arms pressing around him and holding him up.

 

Cas hugs him like he's not afraid of breaking him.

Dean's pretty sure he's broken in a million different ways.

"Dean," Cas whispers into the crook of his neck. "You're alive."

Dean's arms loosen.  He crumbles.  Cas makes a muffled sobbing noise into Dean's shirt, and suddenly they're both holding each other together, as if if one were to let go they'd all shatter into fragments on the floor.   It's a hug, a lover's embrace and a dead man's grip all at once, and   the front of Dean's shirt is damp and he's pretty sure he's dripped snot and sweat and sulfur all over Cas's coat but neither is willing to let go.

"I'm so sorry, Cas.  I'm just so freaking sorry."

"We all have things to be sorry for."

"I'm a demon, Cas!"  Dean tries to pull away, but Cas only pins him closer. "I should be dead. I should be dead. It would be better for everyone if I was dead."  Cas's arm is warm against his back.  "I just wanted to die," he says thickly.

"No, Dean," says Cas, and now he's all choked up too and damn if Dean doesn't hurt even more because now he's gone and made a fucking angel cry. "No." 

Cas rocks him back and forth, slowly, gently, like everything is gonna be okay.

"It could have been worse."

Dean's lips curve into a teary smile and his eyes darken a shade.  "I don't think so."

And for some reason they're laughing now, sad and broken but with something like hope turning up the edges.  And they're hitching back and forth, hands on backs and hands on faces and hands in sweat-matted hair, limbs locked together messily, holding on as if the world has ended and they're left standing in the wreckage clutching each other, each putting the other back together as they break.

 


End file.
